


Speak Your Mind

by autopsyblue



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Great Hiatus, Picking Up Habits from Dead People, Smoking, Talking To Dead People
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-26
Updated: 2014-02-26
Packaged: 2018-01-13 20:57:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1240543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/autopsyblue/pseuds/autopsyblue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John begins to talk to himself because he comes to the conclusion that it's better than not talking at all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Speak Your Mind

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this more than two years ago and didn't have anywhere to post it. Please forgive/point out any spelling errors, I typed this on my phone.

John begins to talk to himself because he comes to the conclusion that it's better than not talking at all.

It is very much nightime. He walks downstairs to wait in the dark. It is a blue dark, dark that reminds him of a country where you can actually see the stars. The flat would be bluedark, and he could imagine this was that country, if the streetlight would go out.

It doesn't.

He walks into the front room like he's going somewhere and stands in the middle of it like he's supposed to be there. Nothing has changed, he thinks. Nobody cares.

He notices the books, lit half by the moon and more by the streetlight. He will have a silly dream sometime in the near future where all the books tilt foreward and fall to split like eggs in fluries of paper on the floor, spilling knowledge into the room until he understands the enigma that used to live (here) and it smiles at him. Today he brushes them and picks up a book—Dog Breading. He leafs through the first couple pages before he realizes what he's doing and slams the book back onto the shelf.

There are cigaretts in the books for some reason, nonsensical because Sherlock never smokes, he wears bandaids instead, but they are there, tucked between a cellphone manual and a pristeen bestseller. Old, he decides. He takes them.

John doesn't smoke, never has. His hands shake as he opens the package, but—good—his whole body is shaking. The cigarette has a sticky sort of weight that had nothing to do with its size. He can't remember ever seeing a lighter in the flat so he lights the cigarette on the stove. He takes one breath from the end before he leaves the kitchen and gags. The awful smell follows him by his side into the living room again, onto the couch. He sits in the middle of it. He's allowed, he supposes. Nobody else here to take up space. He tries the cigarette again—still awful.

"You're always so bored," he says softly into the darkness, "but don't you ever get tired of this?" Someone answers, low, skeptical, distracted, "Of what?"

"This," he gestures unhelpfully with the cigarette, spreading smoke in the air. "Loosing things. Loosing people." He takes a drag from the cigarette when he recieves no reply, coughs.

The darkness says nothing for a few seconds. "What do I have to loose?"

Watson smiles, laughs smally. Smokes a stolen cigarette in a stolen appartment and pretends that people don't fade away, not in deserts or bottles or mastermind plots, and continues to imagine a voice rolling up from the deep blue like a sheet of rain.


End file.
